


The Loves of Les Amis

by Riotstar



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, First Time, Fix-It, Friendship/Love, Grantaire Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sex, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29883240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riotstar/pseuds/Riotstar
Summary: "What do you know of love? Fair Antinous, you would not know it if it prostrated itself at your feet, or flung itself on your sword. You see only right and war, but you miss all the pleasures your mistress has to offer. You refuse her wine, you scorn her women, you care not for anything but your cause. What must it be like, to live like a nun at the convent of revolution?"The philosophers of Ancient Greece wrote of several different kinds of love; Grantaire experiences them through Les Amis de l'ABC.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Les Amis de l'ABC
Kudos: 8





	The Loves of Les Amis

**Author's Note:**

> A semi fix-it fic in which the Amis get to be amis, and Grantaire gets closer to Enjolras, before the inevitable. Featuring a side dose of philosophical musings and gratuitous classics references. 
> 
> Partially inspired by C.S. Lewis's essays on 'The Four Loves', and with apologies to Eugene Delacroix and my old Latin teacher.

_**I. Storge** (στοργή): _

_Affection, empathy bond towards the familiar, especially of parents to offspring, or of offspring to parents. Love needed and love given. A love that can deplete the giver, or turn sour on the receiver._

"Why?" Grantaire slurred, causing the heads about him to turn. Enjolras paused, mid declamation, and directed his fierce gaze upon him in the dim candlelight of the back room of the Café Musain.

"You object, Grantaire?" His scrutiny was as piercing as ever. The ambient chatter in the small, smoke filled room seemed to distance itself.

"Not exactly. I merely struggle to understand why you love your country so ardently." Grantaire gestured vaguely to their surroundings. "Is French soil richer than any other? Do other nations want for art, for culture or civilisation? I'll freely admit to my love of French wine and French women, but I doubt their beauty is unparalleled elsewhere." He was disturbing the lion's slumber, he knew, and yet so rarely was able to resist the temptation. The tension in the room palpably increased, as Enjolras's gaze darkened.

"Then why do you come here," Enjolras scorned, "If our cause is so unfathomable?"

Grantaire considered for a moment, for he was not certain he knew himself. After a long silence, he found himself without a conclusion, and settled on pushing his luck further; "I would ask the same of you."

Prouvaire, in the seat closest to him, almost recoiled, and Enjolras's fierce light grew brighter, as he rose from his seat. He paced for a moment, then turned to address his assembled companions thusly: 

"You really wish to know?" He mocked. "Why do I love our country? It is simple; she is ours, and we are hers." In that singular declaration, though he remained fierce, his gaze softened, and Grantaire could see the affection hidden beneath his anger, lending warmth to his striking features. "It is our duty to serve the Republic, to fight for liberty and all that she has given us, so all may share in her light. We are but shadows cast by her radiance." He met each of their gazes in turn, before locking eyes with Grantaire, and addressing him only. "You ask if our country is superior? I do not know. But I know that she is beautiful, and injustice is a crime to her perfection. Should we let tyrants carve out her soul and keep it locked away? To prevent her people having their rightful share of her bounty? To allow the state to commit acts of violence against the dignity of her people, so that men cannot protect their families from starvation, and women must sell themselves to survive if hardship befalls them and they have no one else to turn to? Should we let the ambitions of kings define our fates, or should all be permitted to bask in her glory? I love my country, and I will not allow any man to take that from me. That is why I fight for liberty, so all may be granted an equal share of her love. The Republic will deliver it to them."

Grantaire, as always, found himself moved by Enjolras's certainty, but could not overcome his sceptical, contrarian nature, so he needled on; "What do you know of love? Fair Antinous, you would not know it if it prostrated itself at your feet, or flung itself on your sword. You see only right and war, but you miss all the pleasures your mistress has to offer. You refuse her wine, you scorn her women, you care not for anything but your cause. What must it be like, to live like a nun at the convent of revolution? Does your earthly form even have genitalia, or were they considered superfluous in your creation? Perhaps they are present, but purely decorative in function… does our paragon of republican self mastery ever-"

"Grantaire!" Enjolras's deep blue eyes spoke of exhausted frustration. "I would thank you to keep your opinion of me and my genitalia to yourself. I would not expect a causeless drunk like you to understand how I feel, but I have given my answer." At that, he turned away, to pursue some intense discussion with Combeferre. Bossuet raised his eyebrows at Grantaire, as if astonished at the uncharted depths of his foolishness, and recruited him in gently teasing Joly instead.

Had Grantaire been a man prone to self reflection, perhaps he would have been able to answer Enjolras's question of why he came to the Musain. Perhaps he could have articulated his reason for provoking him so: Enjolras's passion was the sun, and he wished simply to bask in the heat of his conviction.

Later that night, when Grantaire had drunk himself into oblivion, and the rest of their compatriots had gradually departed, Enjolras came to him, placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him roughly from his slumber. 

"Come, it is time to go." He murmured. Grantaire caught his hand as he withdrew it, and opened his eyes.

"Forgive me." He implored, his vision blurred; Enjolras a marble statue towering over him, haloed in the faint orange glow of the dying light. "I do not mean to be so combative, or perhaps I do, but you do not deserve it." Enjolras leant forward in response, his form diminishing to that of a mere warrior. 

"I wish you could see the world as I do, Grantaire, then perhaps we would fight together, instead of in opposition."

"If anyone could make me see it, it is you." Grantaire, still clutching Enjolras's hand, drew it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss upon the heel of his palm. Enjolras stiffened, but did not pull away, and Grantaire risked meeting his gaze once more. To his surprise, he found no revulsion in his eyes, only something resembling pity, and perhaps disapproval. Grantaire released him and slumped back into his chair. Enjolras took the seat opposite him, and regarded him with an inscrutable look, before composing his thoughts into another gift of divine wisdom. 

"Do you have family, Grantaire?" Enjolras began.

"I do, though none noteworthy enough to discuss among such lofty minds as yours."

"But you lived with them, as a boy?"

"I did." Grantaire could not fathom where this conversation was leading.

"Did they treat you well?"

"My mother did. My father was often absent, or impaired. I suppose we have some interests in common now." He gestured to the empty bottles littering the table before him.

"Well," Enjolras was addressing him as he would a child, Grantaire could tell, "Your mother loved you, did she not?" He paused, and Grantaire nodded his assent. "But, you did nothing to earn that affection, yet it was given to you freely, without coercion, or questions of if you are worthy of it." That struck a chord in Grantaire, awakening something dark, hopeless and bitter, for surely he was not worthy of the love he most desired now: Enjolras, now in full flight, forged on. "And did you love her in return?"

"I did, I do." Grantaire met Enjolras's gaze again, and was surprised to find him smiling. The expression softened his beauty into something quite different from his usual, fierce, intimidating perfection. Grantaire suppressed the urge to reach out, to cup his perfect jawline, to run his thumb along one defined cheekbone.

"Then you are fortunate, and perhaps we do not speak in entirely different tongues." Enjolras held his gaze, in that intoxicating way of his, that could incite romantics to launch a thousand ships in his name, and stir the weary to frenzied action. " _France_ is my mother, and her people are my children."

Grantaire could not help but find the very notion ridiculous. What a ludicrous, divine, mythic creature Enjolras must be, to be born not of the serendipitous unions of his ancestors, but of the soul of a nation. What a fool Grantaire was to harbour any hope that such a titan was capable of seeing in him anything but another lost soul to guide towards the light. Something of his thoughts must have been betrayed in his expression, for Enjolras's brow furrowed ever so slightly; that so familiar look of disdain returning. Grantaire opened his mouth to explain himself, but before he could put thought into elocution, Enjolras had risen to his feet.

"Enough," he dismissed. "I'll hear no more of your mockery tonight. It is late, and there is work to be done tomorrow." And with that, he turned on his heels, and Grantaire watched his fine form depart. 

When Grantaire finally felt sober enough to wend his way home, he collapsed fully clothed onto his small, solitary bed, and let despair take him.

_**II. Philia** (φιλία): _

_Affectionate, virtuous regard between equals; loyalty to friends, brotherly love._

Grantaire had been orbiting the bright star that was Enjolras for several years now, at the far icy reaches of the solar system that was the collection of friends he had drawn into his inner circle. He could no more resist the compulsion to attend their meetings at the Café Musain, than the planets could willingly free themselves of their predefined trajectories, to wander the infinite skies alone. 

And yet, he had still managed to evade actively participating in any of their political activity. He was welcomed at the hearth by some, tolerated by the others, but he had not yet been drawn into the fray. Neither Enjolras nor Combeferre had ever come to him with instructions, as he had witnessed them take others aside. He heard faint snippets: talk of forging alliances, of sourcing arms, of barricades, but they were always overheard at the tail end of conversations that did not involve him. It was, therefore, entirely by chance that he found himself stumbling into the crossfire of one of their schemes, at a most fortuitous moment. 

The streets were dark and damp, illuminated in shifting pools of orange light, as the streetlamps swayed listlessly on their ropes, hailing a storm in the near future and reflecting off the pools of rain that filled the gutters. Grantaire had been making his way from the Barrière du Compat to the Café Musain, when he caught sight of three figures moving swiftly along a side street, and two others, uniformed gendarmes, in the street adjacent to it. Grantaire stood at the head of a pyramid, where several streets conjoined, that gave him eyes on both; the trio to his right, and their pursuers to his left. He paused, curious to see how the situation would progress, then a faint flash of gold, as the group of three passed directly beneath a lantern, made his heart falter. As they drew closer, he recognised the broad, athletic shoulders of Courfeyrac, the characteristic saunter of Bahorel, and of course that glint of gold that made his breath turn sparse in his lungs.

They were making swift, silent progress in his direction, matched by the progress of the gendarmes, on trajectory to collide. Grantaire glanced down both paths, and, spurred on by an internal call to action, he strode a short distance down the left-hand street, speaking in a clear, carrying voice that echoed through the near-empty streets.

"Gentlemen!" He hailed. "What a fine night it is!" The night, incidentally, was not fine at all. " _Regardez_ , the stars themselves do cower before Paris' beauty!" He gestured, rapturously, to the clouded heavens. 

"Step aside, _soûlard_." The gendarme closest to him urged, as they skirted past. Grantaire stepped into the shadows and listened, hoping his calls had been warning enough.

"They are gone!" One of the gendarmes cried.

"That drunkard must have scared them off." His companion supplied. Both turned to vent their frustrations upon the interrupter, but Grantaire, an experienced undesirable, had already vanished.

As Grantaire made his way through the long, narrow passage towards the backroom of the Musain, the ambient sounds of companionable conversation grew louder, and a bright laugh, Joly's, rose above it. He opened the door, and the warm ambience of the room reached out to him.

"Ah, here he is! The man of the hour!" Bahorel called; a drink was pressed into Grantaire's palm, many hands were reaching through the smoke to pat him on the shoulders, or grasping to shake his. 

"A toast! To the revolution's _sauveur_!" Bossuet raised his glass on high, Joly, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Feuilly joined him in a loud _'Santé!'_ , and Grantaire joined them in enthusiastically clinking glasses, before taking a large swill of whatever they had given him, not quite sure he had done enough to earn this, but glad to be on the receiving end of their high spirits all the same. 

Through the haze of an endless supply of drinks he did not have to pay for, and a stream of congratulations, thanks, and admiration, Grantaire found himself at the centre of the room, with Enjolras and Combeferre before him. Enjolras's finely sculpted features were as inscrutable as ever, but Combeferre was smiling warmly at him. 

"Thank you, Grantaire." Combeferre reached forward to grasp his upper arm firmly, a gesture of friendship and appreciation. "You did us a great service tonight." 

"It was nothing." Grantaire smiled in return. Combeferre released him, and Grantaire could not help but look towards Enjolras, seeking, against his better judgement, any sign of approval. Enjolras's mouth betrayed no sign of happiness, his eyes steeled with his customary resolve, but he nodded stiffly. 

"Indeed." Enjolras spoke without emphasis, and yet that small affirmation was enough to make Grantaire's intoxicated heart sing.

"Think nothing of it." Grantaire waved his glass in performative dismissal. "I merely wished to enact a small rebellion of my own. You needn't always have all the fun without me." A pause; a question Grantaire usually would not care to ask, but he was curious. "Dare I ask _why_ you were running from the gendarmes this time?"

Enjolras folded his arms across his chest, and sought counsel in Combeferre's serene glance.

"He has earned our confidence, I think." Combeferre offered. Enjolras, after some consideration, seemed to acquiesce.

"Very well." He gestured for Grantaire to follow, and lead them both to a corner of the room, removed enough from the festive commotion that they could speak in lowered voices. Prouvaire was standing on his chair, enthusiastically composing a dramatic retelling of the night's events, with Bossuet's loud encouragement, to Bahorel's riotous approval.

When they had taken their seats, Enjolras began; "As you may know, we are seeking to forge alliances, with other groups, such as ours. Tonight was such an occasion, we had arranged to meet and discuss terms, but we were betrayed."

"The meeting had been informed upon." Combeferre offered as clarification.

"Perhaps they were betrayed too." Enjolras conceded. "It matters not. What matters is, there were six of us, and ten gendarmes waiting to spring the trap. Some pursued those we were due to meet, others we managed to shake off in Les Halles, two remained."

"It was an ideal coincidence that our paths crossed, then." Grantaire said, without emotion.

"Most ideal indeed!" Combeferre agreed.

"It was convenient." Enjolras continued; "I assume you did not see us, but your voice alerted us to their presence, and we were able to change course." He added, after a pause; "Thank you."

"You are most welcome." Grantaire smiled, a bitter taste behind it. "Well, should you have further need of my services, I daresay you shall hear me coming." At that, he rose to join the livelier half of the party. Enjolras and Combeferre remained in their seats for the rest of the evening, absorbed in an intense duologue.

_'I assume you did not see us.'_ Grantaire's heart had sunk like a stone. So that was what Enjolras thought of him, that he had not, in fact, seen his friends in trouble and risen to their aid, but that he had simply been a wandering, raving drunk, that happened to be in the right place at the right time. The Barrier du Maine incident was undoubtedly to blame: he had failed them once before, and Enjolras did not forget. His intentions had been pure: he had meant to build a rapport, to make them more amenable to his rhetoric when he set out his case, but the plan went awry, and Enjolras, through an amalgamation of fury and disappointment, had threatened to banish him from their meetings as a result, relenting only after Courfeyrac had beseeched him on Grantaire's behalf.

Prouvaire, with plenty of encouragement, had been inspired to create an embellished version of the tale in which Grantaire had single-handedly wrestled several gendarmes to the ground, and led the others on a merry chase through the streets of Paris, outwitting them in a daring show of bravery and ingenuity. None of it was true, but it brought them amusement all the same. It was warming, to hear the affection with which his friends fabricated the tale, but Grantaire found the whole night had been soured for him by that one little betrayal of Enjolras's inner thoughts. 

Bahorel pulled him aside, just as they all began to depart a little after midnight; "Thank you," he began, "that was quick thinking on your part, we'll make a soldier of the republic of you yet."

"I doubt it, but I am glad to be of service." Grantaire replied.

"I mean it." Bahorel continued. "I know you think ours is a lost cause, but each sharp mind that joins it makes it a little more achievable. Consider it, at least." Bahorel lay a heavy hand against his spine, bade him goodnight, and left.

Grantaire turned back to his chair to collect his coat, and was surprised to find himself alone with Enjolras once more, the clamour of their companions drifting back to them down the corridor as they took their leave .

"You know," The words left Grantaire's lips without his mind's permission, a little of his bitterness leaking out of the open wound, "I think I _felt_ it was you, before my eyes confirmed it." Enjolras had stopped in his tracks, but did not turn to look at him.

"I see." His voice was almost a whisper, but Grantaire still heard, then Enjolras turned to face him. He strode forward, placed his right hand at the nape of Grantaire's neck, kissing him first on one cheek, then the other. "The republic is grateful, brother."

_**III. Eros** (ἔρως): _

_Intimate love; romantic, erotic love, the appreciation of beauty, love that inspires poets and philosophers to seek a spiritual truth._

"Say, whatever happened to that Marius fellow, the one you brought to us, Courfeyrac?" Bossuet inquired, over a shared plate of Carpes au gras. They had met in the upstairs room of the Corinthe for a late breakfast, drifting in gradually from the cold grey morning. The food was atrocious, but the company was good, and the prices were cheap. Grantaire had been surprised to find Enjolras among their number, and had the sense that something significant must be on the verge of happening, for it was uncommon for Enjolras to join them all this early.

"Ah, I'm afraid he may have fallen to one of Eros's cruel arrows!" Courfeyrac laughed. "I should have guessed it when I first saw him in that absurd new hat and coat, no doubt an attempt to impress some discerning Bourgeoisie _Mademoiselle._ " The _Mademoiselle_ was said with no shortage of derision.

"Such is the sorry fate of so many young hopefuls!" Bossuet laughed too, and elbowed Joly beside him. "Do not follow his example, _Jolllly_." 

"Eros has indeed struck me," Joly sighed, "but, I shall not abandon my brothers so easily."

"I should think not." Enjolras said, with a tone that implied consequences should an unwise decision be made.

"Enjolras disapproves of love that is not in service of the republic." Grantaire stated, reaching for his second bottle of the day.

"Oh, but my love _is_ in service of it!" Joly exclaimed, with all the yearning enthusiasm of a too-eager Romeo. "Musichetta is my lady liberty! I would see her likeness rendered in oils by Delacroix adorning the walls of the Salon!" 

Grantaire, struck by the sudden image of Enjolras, bare-chested and in tattered clothing, towering majestically amidst the bodies of the fallen; a musket in one hand and the Tricolore in the other, coughed as the oyster he had been attempting to swallow lodged in his throat. The notion was somehow both enticing and farcical. The role suited Enjolras; his ideal proportions and delicately classical features begged for a painter's scrutiny. Grantaire had occasionally entertained the notion of painting him himself, but the idea that Enjolras would ever be willing to lower himself to the position of artist's model, when there was injustice to address and kings to overthrow, was ludicrous. 

"Blasphemy!" Courfeyrac's good-humoured exclamation shook Grantaire from his contemplation of Enjolras's divine beauty. "Musichetta is a fine woman, I admit, but don't let our chief hear you tar his mistress's name by comparison to that of your grisette!" 

Enjolras was quite clearly within earshot, both of Joly's amorous declaration and Courfeyrac's jest, but chose not to acknowledge them. Courfeyrac and Joly continued to bicker good-naturedly, with Bossuet chiming in on both sides of the debate. Grantaire declared Musichetta a fine candidate for his paintbrush: "I shall cast her as Phryne, Aspasia, or Mary Magdalene... " In response to which Joly struck him on the arm for defaming his mistress's virtue. 

"But, you know, Delacroix's painting celebrates the _Trois Glorieuses_ ," Prouvaire interjected nervously. "Should we admire the allegory of a revolution that was stolen from us?" 

"It still depicts her as a republican icon; the Phrygian cap, the flag of 1789, I should say it is a fine symbol of our cause!" Courfeyrac declared.

"You are the artist, Grantaire, what is your interpretation?" Bossuet asked.

"I think republican tits and monarchist ones are just as good as each other." Grantaire stated, with a theatrical wave of dismissal.

"You are incorrigible!" Courfeyrac laughed, then turned to Enjolras, asking; "and you?"

"I would prefer the flag were red." 

The debate continued. Grantaire's eyes were drawn eventually, inevitably, to Enjolras, now sat beside Feuilly, pouring over what appeared to be a list of names. In truth, Grantaire did not paint anymore, and had not for some time. Oh, but for the chance to spend hours studying Enjolras in his natural form, as the ancient Greeks would have it; to absorb every detail until he could reproduce every muscle, every sinew upon his canvas, or to watch how the light changed the shade of his hair, how it would make his skin glow like silk. Yes, he would paint all the ceilings of Versailles for that.

By mid afternoon, Grantaire was his customary level of thoroughly soused, so when Enjolras came over to speak with him, at first he thought he was witnessing a mirage. 

"Grantaire, would you walk with me?" Enjolras asked, flatly. 

"Anything for you, _mon ange_." Grantaire replied. Enjolras did not react to the term of endearment. 

"Come." Enjolras led him down the rickety wooden staircase, and out into the street. 

"Where are we going?"

"To the Musain, where we will find Combeferre."

"Is something the matter?"

"Not exactly." Enjolras paused, looking around. The street they were on was deserted; the threat of rain in the air had caused restaurant proprietors to bring their tables under cover, and those who were still outside were hurried towards their destinations. Enjolras moved in close, so he could speak softly, and Grantaire fought the urge to pull him closer still. "Plans are coming to fruition." He murmured. "It is imperative that we decide now who is on our side, who we can trust. That is what we will discuss with Combeferre."

"I fail to see my part in this."

"That is the complication." Enjolras sighed. "You do not believe in our cause, and yet you are present when we discuss our movements. You have the keys to our kingdom, and yet you are an outsider."

"...And you still do not trust me." Grantaire interrupted, to spare himself the wound of hearing Enjolras say it. "You and Combeferre intend to interrogate me, then?" Enjolras gave him a look that was not a refutation. "So, that is how it is."

They walked some distance in silence; Grantaire tried not to fall into self pity. With each step they took towards the Musain, the skies seemed to darken and the wind grew stronger, until at last the pressure broke, the arrival of a storm precipitated by a distant flash of lightning. The rain came swiftly and heavily afterwards. Without comment, they quickened their pace, but the heavens made short work of their wool coats, and it was not long before they were soaked through. Their leather soled shoes began to leak, immersed in the little rivers that swiftly formed, running over the cobbled streets. They took shelter under a stone archway to assess their predicament. 

"Should we wait here for it to pass?" Grantaire suggested, Enjolras looked to the sky.

"It shows no sign of stopping." He concluded. "We are still a mile from the Musain. Your lodgings are closer, are they not?" 

Grantaire did some mental geometry, then nodded, asking; "will Combeferre be bereft or our presence?"

"He will not have set out in this, we can delay." Enjolras replied.

They reached Grantaire's abode, a five story sandstone building with an unornamented façade, and the offices of a printer's shop at street level. The porter admitted them without comment. Enjolras followed Grantaire up the three flights of stairs to his room, on the floor directly beneath the attics. The room was Spartan in decoration, with plain, slightly yellowed walls, one small rug the only concession to frivolity, but it was well equipped, with a small fireplace, a writing desk with a wooden chair, one worn armchair and a small alcove bed. A large wooden trunk and a small stand for a basin of water completed the accoutrements. Grantaire stoked the fire back to life and dragged the trunk unceremoniously over to it. 

"We can dry our coats on here." He said, removing his and laying it flat on top of the trunk, then set his wet shoes by the fire as well. As Enjolras did the same, Grantaire realised he had been wearing a Robespierre waistcoat underneath, as he removed that as well, and hung it on the rail of wooden pegs by the door. Grantaire noted the care with which he handled the red silk, in contrast to the haphazard manner in which he had discarded his cravat. 

Grantaire dragged the armchair and the chair from the writing desk closer to the fire, the scrape of their legs against the floor cutting into their contemplative quietude. He gestured for Enjolras to take the armchair, and sat in the smaller chair opposite. Enjolras looked out of place, Grantaire thought, in such a domestic setting; his damp shirtsleeves turned up, his curly hair weighed down and clinging to the side of his face. His posture gave him the air of a knight who had just returned home from battle, leaning forward and staring thoughtfully into the fire. 

"It seems your plan for the afternoon has gone awry." Grantaire commented, to break the silence, watching a stray bead of rainwater trace a meandering path from Enjolras's hairline, down the side of his cheek. 

"Not entirely." Enjolras said to the fire. The raindrop dripped off the edge of his finely carved jawline, down into the open collar of his shirt below. Grantaire tried hopelessly to avert his gaze.

"Ah, so ending up improperly dressed in my room _was_ on the agenda? If I had known I should have brought wine, perhaps arranged some candles..." Grantaire said in jest, trying to defuse his own erratic thoughts with humour.

"No." Enjolras was looking at him innocently, and Grantaire felt like the cad he so often acted the part of.

"Well," Grantaire forced a change of topic to try and suppress the urge to lean forward, to tug aside Enjolras's collar and follow where the little droplet had gone, "do you still wish to wait for Combeferre to interrogate me, or shall we get it over with? I am surprised you did not recruit Courfeyrac or Bahorel also, to hold my feet to the flames. What is your preferred method I wonder? Am I to be put to the rack, or to the bull?" Grantaire was only half aware of what he was saying, an observer to his own prolixical raving. "No, too complex, perhaps some simple flagellation?"

"We were not going to tie you to a chair and force a confession out of you, if that is what you were expecting."

"A pity. I might have welcomed the _divertissement_." Enjolras looked at him with a curious expression.

"Why do you always say such things? 

" _Pardon_?"

"That you would welcome being tied to a chair, or calling me _ton ange._ "

"You really do not know?" Grantaire asked, softly. Of course not, he thought, the avatar of revolution has no need of such vain distractions. 

"Tell me." Enjolras implored, his face impassive. Grantaire took a slow, calming breath, and lay his fate in Enjolras's hands.

"To put it plainly, I desire you."

Enjolras's response was immediate, and scornful: "You mock me." He drew back in his seat, increasing the distance between them, his full lips forming the suggestion of a pout.

"I am devastatingly serious." Grantaire gave solemn proclamation. Enjolras did not speak at first, and Grantaire prepared himself for the worst, to be cast out of Olympus, exiled from his beloved kingdom. So lost in imagined torment was he that he almost missed Enjolras's whispered; 

"...Why?" 

For once, Grantaire could not find words, for where could he possibly begin? He was no poet, and Enjolras deserved to have his virtues extolled in meticulously crafted verse, by one whose tongue was not more acquainted to mockery than it was to praise. No, such a feat was beyond him, honesty would have to suffice.

"In truth, I cannot explain it, I know only that you have charmed me, or perhaps Eros has struck me also." _Eros enters him like an invader,_ Grantaire thought, _taking over and reorganising, one by one, the institutions of a conquered country._

"Then, you are more foolish than I thought." Grantaire had formed quite a tolerance for Enjolras's admonitions, but he did not wish to hear any more today, not when he had finally given voice to what he had so long tried to deny. 

"A fact of which I am painfully aware, though I do not understand why the notion is so astounding, there are many who would be inspired to acts of heroic valour for one iota of your affection."

"Then they are fools as well. I have no affection to give. You are as bad as Marius, distracted by the first pretty bauble you see." 

"You wound me, it is not your looks, exquisite though they are, that have tormented me so, I may desire the form but that is a consequence of admiring the substance."

"A vessel. This aspect of existence, it is meaningless."

"I disagree."

"I would expect nothing less." Enjolras leaned back in the chair, his seemingly relaxed posture an incitement to continue the battle of wills. Grantaire rose to his feet, pacing in an attempt to calm his tumultuous thoughts. 

"Do you never feel moved to seek physical satisfaction? Or are all your compulsions merely about sustaining the body so it may exist long enough to see your revolution through?" 

"Sometimes I do." A concession, a small chip in Enjolras's perfection, Grantaire should feel victorious.

"And what do you do about it?"

"I attend to the physical symptoms and move on, the thoughts are temporary."

"All hail the martyr, though even that small stain on your virtue may cost you in heaven, if we're to believe in it."

Enjolras rose to his feet, exclaiming: "this is absurd!" He took several long strides towards the door, as if intending to leave; Grantaire, gripped by momentary panic, rose and stood in his path, catching him by the waist as he tried to evade him. 

"Get a hold of yourself." Enjolras scolded, but made no attempt to free himself. 

"Your clothes…" Grantaire began, pleading: "I don't expect you to share my inclinations, but please, spare me the shame of having to rationalise a man in a state of undress being seen leaving my lodgings in haste..." They paused, face to face, Enjolras's expression softened, and something within Grantaire's psyche fractured, whether it was the sheer pathos of the moment, or some delirium taking hold, he began to laugh. Enjolras, still pressed to Grantaire's hip, began shaking, then, to Grantaire's amazement, began to laugh as well. Enjolras was not the kind of man to laugh often, or easily, but when he did it was like honey, smooth and sweet, a luxurious gift of nature.

"I do not mean to cause you distress." Grantaire said, once he had regained command of his faculties.

"You do not." Enjolras paused, the wheels of his mind turning inexorably, inevitably forward. "So, that is why you come."

"It is so. The rest are good company, I would consider you all my compatriots, but I have no faith in the cause, only in you." Grantaire, giddy with the rush of having flown so close to the sun, and having survived to tell the tale, with Enjolras learning into his side, grew bold enough to test his fortunes just a little further. "May I kiss you, just this once?"

Enjolras, his mirth having run its course, met his gaze, and asked; "Would that please you?" The effect of his placid gaze, and the implications of the question, had a dramatic effect on Grantaire's pulse.

"Tremendously."

Enjolras seemed to give the idea a full Socratic debate in his head, Grantaire waited with bated breath, ready to withdraw his hand from Enjolras's waist, should the Tribunal not rule in his favour. At last, he shared his conclusion: "I will permit it."

Grantaire's breath caught in his chest, and he had to re-examine Enjolras's words in his mind several times, to be sure of understanding them correctly. Enjolras waited patiently, regarding him with an expression of vague amusement. At last, Grantaire nodded, to mark the gravity of the moment, and, with the solemn resolution of a man being led to the guillotine, placed his free hand on Enjolras's cheek and closed the final distance between them.

Grantaire had always assumed kissing Enjolras would be not unlike kissing a statue: unyielding, an ivory Galatea, awaiting Aphrodite's breath of life; and so is surprised to find lips that are made not of marble, but of living, breathing flesh; warm, stiff at first beneath Grantaire's hesitant, gentle attention, then softer, as some of the tension in Enjolras's jaw dissipates, his chest rising in a deep inhale. Grantaire, dubious of how long his touch would be tolerated, attempts to commit the sensation to stone. The shape of Enjolras's mouth, the press of Enjolras's body against his as Grantaire gradually tightens the arm around his waist, until there is nothing but their damp clothes between them, and then, a slow, delirious realisation: Enjolras is more flesh and blood than he appears, and is beginning to have a very physical, very human response to Grantaire's proximity. 

Grantaire is so ambushed by the notion that Enjolras has a body that reacts to outside stimuli like any other, that he breaks the contact of their lips, and immediately regrets doing so. He examines Enjolras's countenance, questioning, searching, for what he does not know. Enjolras looks briefly at Grantaire's lips, an expression of… remorse perhaps? Then he meets Grantaire's gaze, his features neutral once more. 

Grantaire, letting impulse rule him, takes the hand that currently rests against Enjolras's cheek and uses it to push back some of the damp hair from his face and, watching carefully for any small betrayal of Enjolras's inner thoughts, rolls his hips, subtly, and with precision to ensure that Enjolras can feel the effect is mutual. The only indication that Enjolras has noticed at all is a slight flaring of his nostrils as he exhales sharply, but it feels like a victory, so he does it again, with less finesse this time; Enjolras's eyelids flutter closed and, taking that as assent to continue, Grantaire uses the leverage of having his fingers threaded into Enjolras's hair to tilt his head gently to one side, presses his lips to the point where jaw becomes neck, and kisses his way further down. Enjolras's composure slips at last, and he brings his arms up to grasp at Grantaire's shoulders, his fingers pressing in harshly, but making no attempt to either push him away or pull him closer. Grantaire, reaching Enjolras's collar bone and finding further progress impeded by his shirt, performs an extraordinary effort of will, pulling back and brushing Enjolras's hair back into place, seeking clarity of their situation.

"You truly haven't done this before." An observation, not an enquiry.

"No, why would I?" A question that did not expect an answer.

"Do you wish me to stop?"

"No." 

At that Grantaire smiles, threads his fingers through Enjolras's golden hair again, but instead of kissing him, touches their foreheads together and draws Enjolras into an embrace. 

"My dear Apollo, you bewitch me." 

"Stop that." 

Grantaire withdraws immediately, stepping back with such urgency that he finds himself pressed against the door behind him.

"No, I meant… do not call me Apollo, you know who I am."

"Proud Achilles, I wish it were so." That earned him a communicative glare. "I apologise... Enjolras."

"Better." Enjolras steps forward, and this time it is Grantaire who is being kissed. It is harsh and forceful, as everything in Enjolras's world seems to be, and Grantaire is quite convinced he has slipped into some fever dream, until he feels Enjolras's hands working the buttons to the fall front in his trousers free, and there is no mistaking the immediacy of Enjolras's hand tracing the outline of his cock through his shirt tails, and Grantaire lets out a loud, low moan. Enjolras responds by placing his other hand over Grantaire's mouth, breaking the kiss to speak softly in Grantaire's ear: "quiet." Grantaire nods in response, taking Enjolras's hand in his and taking two fingers into his mouth, in an imitation of what he would rather be doing to another part of Enjolras's anatomy. Enjolras pushes Grantaire's shirt tails aside, and Grantaire realises that though Enjolras sees the act as a mechanical necessity, it does not prevent him being skilled at it. Enjolras's face is buried in Grantaire's neck, but Grantaire can feel his chest rising and falling, can hear his breath hitch in time with Grantaire's own, and he feels as though he's close to the breach already. He reaches between them to grasp at the front of Enjolras's trousers, but his hand is pushed aside, and he is at Enjolras's mercy as he brings him roughly to his conclusion. Grantaire is left gasping, and Enjolras turns, making his way over to Grantaire's bed, giving Grantaire a look that compels him to follow. 

Enjolras sits on the edge of the bed, his legs wide, and Grantaire can see he is fully roused.

"Do you wish me to, ah… " Grantaire's mind is operating at a glacial pace. "Are you familiar with the theory of what men may do together?"

"I have read Catullus, I know of fellatio, pedicare, irrumatio..." Grantaire, wincing at the inherent threat of violence in some of the words, wishing only tender things for Enjolras, falls back on mockery as his safety net.

"I am scandalised, for a man so indifferent to the physical act to speak of such filth." Grantaire begins to move forward, stuffing himself and his dirty shirt tails back into his trousers as he goes. Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

"Just because one has more important priorities does not mean they must be uninformed. I think... fellatio to begin." Grantaire tried to put the implications of _to begin_ from his mind.

This was the Enjolras he knew, a man of clear intent and swift, decisive action, one who gave orders secure in the knowledge they would be followed; and yet there was something in his gaze that he did not recognise, something desperate and melancholic. Grantaire resolved to interrogate it.

"As you wish, _studeamus nos nunc amare..._ "

"This has nothing to do with love."

"Then what is it?" 

"An obstacle."

"That is quite evident." Grantaire made a show of looking, and the corner of Enjolras's mouth quirked momentarily in amusement, before he was fierce again.

"You delay, get on with it."

"Why so urgent? It is still raining outside, your mistress can wait an hour yet." Grantaire had a theory, one he intended to prove.

"Combeferre is not my mistress." Enjolras said, in confusion.

"No, my beloved, your mistress is Patria."


End file.
